Later that night I opened the gate to my back yard, sneaking quietly around the house, and opened the window to my basement, crawling inside. I crept up the stairs, not even wincing as the stairs creaked; my parents were not light sleepers. I went up a second flight and opened up the door on the ceiling to the attic: My room. I closed it behind me and checked my alarm clock, it was now four thirty in the morning. I pondered trying to sleep for the hour and a half of sleep I could gain from that slim amount of time, but shrugged it off. I might as well just get ready for school.
I grabbed my robe and climbed down the makeshift ladder to the lower floor and waddled sleepily to the bathroom. I undressed and stepped into the shower, turning the water on. I let the cool stream wash over me without a shiver.
My mind flashed, I suddenly felt dizzy and very ill.
The scene formed in front of me in black and white. Darke stood before me as lighting flashed. It was raining, dark. He was bent over on the street, bleeding from cuts all over. He held a gun limply in his hand and swayed toward me. I took a step back, raising my hand, realizing that I was holding a hand gun myself. He looked up at me, his eyes wild and untamed like a starved beast. He snarled at me, sharp teeth bared. My hand shook as I held the gun pointed at him. It looked to me like he was crying as he lifted his gun up to his own head. The scene went dark and a single shot rang out. From which gun, I wasn't sure.
The next thing I knew I was back in my shower, on my knees. I coughed violently, blood swimming down the drain from my lungs.
What the hell was this?
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